I know it’s chilly

and

I know it’s late

but

I want to inhale the smoke

and I want it

to prickle my nose

and

I really just want to

run away

real fast after I light

the match barefoot of course

off course, missing the

grass and landing on your

lap and we’ll fall

down faster than

the little shards of broken

glass that fill up the foggy sky

and you’ll cup your ink

stained hand over your

brow even though

it’s night-time and I’ll

gasp because I’ve

never lit fireworks

in November and

everything

is just

more beautiful

in winter.

You’ll laugh because I’ll ask how

chemicals could ever make something

so magical and bright and

then I’ll wonder

what if

just

what if

those thousand tiny shards

didn’t dissolve before they

met the ground?

Would they prick us all

at once, like little excited

shocks or would they gently

dust us, making our

faces reflect the

November waning moon

above us? So I know

it’s cold and

I know

I know

I know

it’s late

but.